PRECIPITATIONS 

By 
EVELYN  SCOTT 


PRECIPITATIONS 


BY 

EVELYN  SCOTT 


NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 

NEW  YORK  MCMXX 


IJ 


¥7  oo0 

Copyright,  1920 
BY  NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 


MAIN 


The  author  acknowledges  the  courtesy  of  the  editors  of 
The  Poetry  Journal;  Others;  The  Egoist  (London) ;  Po 
etry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse;  Playboy;  The  Dial;  The 
Liberator;  Others:  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse; 
The  Nation  (New  York) ;  and  The  Lyric,  from  all  of 
which  poems  in  this  volume  have  been  reprinted. 


799802 


CONTENTS 
MANHATTAN 

THE  UNPEOPLED  CITY 

Midnight  Worship :  Brooklyn  Bridge,  p.  13 

Ascension:  Autumn  Dusk  in  Central  Park,  p.  13 

Startled  Forests :  Hudson  River,  p.  14 

Winter  Streets,  p.  15 

February  Springtime,  p.  15 

The  Assumption  of  Columbine,  p.  15 

From  Brooklyn,  p.  16 

Snow  Dance,  p.  16 

Potter's  Field,  p.  17 

Lights  at  Night,  p.  17 

Midnight,  p.  18 

CROWDS 

Summer  Night,  p.  19 

New  York,  p.  19 

Sunset:  Battery  Park,  p.  20 

Crowds,  p.  20 

Riots,  p.  21 

The  City  at  Night,  p.  22 

VANITIES 

BREAD  POEMS 

Lullaby,  p.  25 

Embarkation  of  Cythera,  p.  25 


Christian  Luxuries,  p.  25 

Narrow  Flowers,  p.  26 

Eyes,  p.  26 

After  Youth,  p.  27 

The  Shadow  that  Walks  Alone,  p.  28 

Bible  Truth,  p.  28 

The  Maternal  Breast,  p.  29 

Air  for  G  String,  p.  29 

Destiny,  p.  30 

THE  RED  CROSS 

Hectic  I-II,  p.  31 
Isolation  Ward,  p.  31 
The  Red  Cross,  p.  32 
Hospital  Night,  p.  33 

DOMESTIC  CANTICLE 
Spring  Song,  p.  35 
Home  Again,  p.  36 
To  a  Sick  Child,  p.  36 
Love  Song,  p.  37 
Quarrel,  p.  38 
My  Child,  p.  38 
The  Tunnel  I-V,  p.  39 

BRUISED  SUNLIGHT 
WATER  MOODS 

Rain  on  the  Seashore,  p.  45 
Ship  Masts,  p.  45 
Monochrome,  p.  46 
Antique,  p.  46 


Echo  Looks  at  Herself,  p.  46 
Spell,  p.  47 

HUNGRY  SHADOWS 

Rainy  Twilight,  p.  49 
The  Storm,  p.  49 
Nymphs,  p.  50 
Winter  Dawn,  p.  50 

THE  WALL  OF  NIGHT 

Springtime  Too  Soon,  p.  51 

Stars,  p.  51 

Night  Music,  p.  52 

Nocture  of  Water,  p.  52 

The  Long  Moment,  p.  53 

Designs  I-IV,  p.  53 

Argo,  p.  55 

Japanese  Moon,  p.  55 

Hot  Moon,  p.  55 

The  Naiad,  p.  56 

Floodtide,  p.  56 

Mountain  Pass  in  August,  p.  56 

CONTEMPORARIES 
HARMONICS 

Young  Men,  p.  59 

Young  Girls,  p.  59 

House  Spirits,  p.  60 

At  the  Meeting  House,  p.  60 

Christians,  p.  61 

Devil's  Cradle,  p.  62 

Women,  p.  62 


Penelope,  p.  63 

Poor  People's  Dreams,  p.  64 

For  Wives  and  Mistresses,  p.  66 

PORTRAITS 

Portrait  of  Rich  Old  Lady,  p.  67 

Nigger,  p.  67 

The  Maiden  Mother,  p.  68 

A  Pious  Woman,  p.  68 

A  Very  Old  Rose  Jar,  p.  69 

The  Nixie,  p.  69 

Old  Ladies'  Valhalla,  p.  70 

Portraits  of  Poets  I-III,  p.  71 

Theodore  Dreiser,  p.  72 

Pieta,  p.  73 

BRAZIL  THROUGH  A  MIST 

THE  RANCH 

Tropical  Life,  p.  77 

Twenty-Four  Hours,  p.  77 

Rainy  Season,  p.  77 

Mail  on  the  Ranch,  p.  78 

The  Vampire  Bat,  p.  79 

Conservatism,  p.  79 

Little  Pigs,  p.  80 

The  Silly  Ewe,  p.  80 

The  Snake,  p.  80 

The  Year,  p.  80 

Burning  Mountains  I-II,  p.  81 

Villa  Nova  da  Serra,  p.  82 

Rain  in  the  Mountains,  p.  82 


Tropical  Winter,  p.  83 
Talk  on  the  Ranch,  p.  83 

LES  MALADIES  DES  PAYS  CHAUDS 
Pride  of  Race,  p.  85 

Don  Quixote  Sojourns  in  Rio  de  Janeiro,  p.  85 
Convent  Musings,  p.  86 
Guitarra,  p.  87 
November,  p.  87 

THE  COMING  OF  CHRIST 
THE  DEATH  OF  COLUMBINE 
Duet,  p.  91 

From  a  Man  Dying  on  a  Cross,  p.  91 
Lagniappe,  p.  92 
Hail  Mary!  p.  93 
The  Death  of  Columbine,  p.  93 
Pierrot  Laughs,  p.  94 
The  Transmigration  of  Caliban,  p.  95 
Gundry,  p.  96 
Viennese  Waltz,  p.  96 

RESURRECTION 

Immortality,  p.  99 
Autumn  Night,  p.  100 
Venus'  Fly  Trap,  p.  101 
Suicide,  p.  101 
Leaves  I-IV,  p.  101 
Allegro,  p.  102 


MANHATTAN 


THE  UNPEOPLED  CITY 
MIDNIGHT  WORSHIP:  BROOKLYN  BRIDGE 

IN  the  rain 
Rows  of  street  lamps  are  saints  in  bright  garments 
That  flow  long  with  the  bend  of  knees. 
They  lift  pale  heads  nimbussed  with  golden  spikes. 

Up  the  lanes  of  liquid  onyx 

Toward  the  high  fire-laden  altars 

Move  the  saints  of  Manhattan 

In  endless  pilgrimage  to  death, 

Amidst  the  asphodel  and  anemones  of  dawn. 

ASCENSION:  AUTUMN  DUSK  IN  CENTRAL  PARK 

Featureless   people   glide  with   dim   motion   through   a 

quivering  blue  silver; 
Boats  merge  with  the  bronze-gold  welters  about  their 

keels. 

The  trees  float  upward  in  gray  and  green  flames. 
Clouds,  swans,  boats,  trees,  all  gliding  up  a  hillside 

13 


After  some  gray  old  women  who  lift  their  gaunt  forms 
From  falling  shrouds  of  leaves. 

Thin  fingered  twigs  clutch  darkly  at  nothing. 

Crackling  skeletons  shine. 

Along  the  smutted  horizon  of  Fifth  Avenue 

The  hooded  houses  watch  heavily 

With  oily  gold  eyes. 

STARTLED  FORESTS:  HUDSON  RIVER 

The  thin  hill  pushes  against  the  mist. 
Its  fading  defiance  sounds  in  the  umber  and  red  of  au 
tumn  leaves. 

Like  a  dead  arm  around  a  warm  throat 
Is  the  sagging  embrace  of  the  river 
Laid  grayly  about  the  shore. 

The  train  passes. 

We  emerge  from  a  tunnel  into  a  sky  of  thin  blue  morning 

glories 

Where  yellow  lily  bells  tinkle  down. 
The  paths  run  swiftly  away  under  the  lamp  glow 
Like  green  and  blue  lizards 
Mottled  with  light. 


14 


WINTER  STREETS 

The  stars,  escaping, 

Evaporate  in  acrid  mists. 

The  houses,  rearing  themselves  higher, 

Assemble  among  the  clouds. 

Night  blows  through  me. 

I  am  clear  with  its  bitterness. 

I  tinkle  along  brick  canyons 

Like  a  crystal  leaf. 

FEBRUARY  SPRINGTIME 

The  trees  hold  out  pale  gilded  branches 

Stiff  and  high  in  the  wind. 

On  the  lawns 

Patches  of  gray-lilac  snow 

Melt  in  the  hollows  of  the  terraces. 

The  park  is  an  ocean  of  fawn-colored  plush, 

Ridged  and  faded. 

Sharp  and  delicate, 

My  shadow  moves  after  me  on  the  rumpled  grass  — 

Grass  like  a  pillow  worn  by  a  dear  head. 

Joy! 

THE  ASSUMPTION  OF  COLUMBINE 

The  lights  trickle  grayly  down  from  the  hoary  palisades 
And  drip  into  the  river. 

15 


Leaden  reflections  flow  into  the  water. 

Framed  in  your  window, 

tYour  little  face  glows  deceptively 

In  a  rigid  ecstasy, 

As  the  wide-winged  morning 

Folds  back  the  mist. 

FROM  BROOKLYN 

Along  the  shore 

A  black  net  of  branches 

Tangles  the  pulpy  yellow  lamps. 

The  shell-colored  sky  is  lustrous  with  the  fading  sun. 

Across  the  river  Manhattan  floats  — 

Dim  gardens  of  fire  — 

And  rushing  invisible  toward  me  through  the  fog, 

A  hurricane  of  faces. 

SNOW  DANCE 

Black  brooms  of  trees  sweep  the  sky  clean; 

Sweep  the  house  fronts, 

And  leave  them  bleak  in  sleep. 

High  up  the  empty  moon 

Spills  her  vacuity. 

I  dance. 

My  long  black  shadow 

16 


Weaves  an  invisible  pattern  of  pain. 

The  snow 

Is  embroidered  with  my  happiness. 

POTTER'S  FIELD 

Golden  petals,  honey  sweet, 

Crushed  beneath  fear -hastened  feet  .  .  . 

Silver  paper  lanterns  glow  and  shudder 

In  flat  patterns 

On  a  gray  eternal  face 

Stained  with  pain. 

LIGHTS  AT  NIGHT 

In  the  city, 

Storms  of  light 

Surge  against  the  clouds, 

Pushing  up  the  darkness. 

In  the  country, 

Is  the  faint  pressure  of  oil  lamps, 

That  sputter, 

Smothered  with  earth  — 

Extinguished  in  silence. 


17 


MIDNIGHT 

The  golden  snow  of  the  stars 

Drifts  in  mounds  of  light, 

Melts  against  the  hot  sides  of  the  city, 

Cool  cheek  against  burning  breast, 

Cold  golden  snow, 

Falling  all  night. 


18 


CROWDS 

SUMMER  NIGHT 

The  bloated  moon 

Has  sickly  leaves  glistening  against  her 

Like  flies  on  a  fat  white  face. 

The  thick-witted  drunkard  on  the  park  bench 

Touches  a  girl's  breast 

That  throbs  with  its  own   ruthless  and  stupid  delight. 

The  new-born  child  crawls  in  his  mother's  filth. 

Life,  the  sleep  walker, 

Lifts  toward  the  skies 

An  immense  gesture  of  indecency. 

NEW  YORK 

With  huge  diaphanous  feet, 
March  the  leaden  velvet  elephants, 
Pressing  the  bodies  back  into  the  earth. 

19 


SUNSET:  BATTERY  PARK 

From  cliffs  of  houses, 

Sunlit  windows  gaze  down  upon  me 

Like  undeniable  eyes, 

Millions  of  bronze  eyes, 

Unassailable, 

Obliterating  all  they  see: 

The  warm  contiguous  crowd  in  the  street  below 

Chills, 

Mists, 

Drifts  past  those  hungry  eyes  of  Eternity, 

Melts  seaward  and  deathward 

To  the  ocean. 

CROWDS 

The  sky  along  the  street  a  gauzy  yellow: 
The  narrow  lights  burn  tall  in  the  twilight. 

The  cool  air  sags, 
Heavy  with  the  thickness  of  bodies. 
I  am  elated  with  bodies. 
They  have  stolen  me  from  myself. 
I  love  the  way  they  beat  me  to  life, 
Pay  me  for  their  cruelties. 
In  the  close  intimacy  I  feel  for  them 
There  is  the  indecency  I  like. 

20 


I  belong  to  them, 

To  these  whom  I  hate; 

And  because  we  can  never  know  each  other, 

Or  be  anything  to  each  other, 

Though  we  have  been  the  most, 

I  sell  so  much  of  me  that  could  bring  a  better  price. 

RIOTS 

As  if  all  the  birds  rushed  up  in  the  air, 

Fluttering; 

Hoots,  calls,  cries. 

I  never  knew  such  a  monster  even  in  child  dreams. 

It  grows : 

Glass  smashed; 

Stores  shut; 

Windows  tight  closed; 

Dull,  far-off  murmurs  of  voices. 

Blood  — 

The  soft,  sticky  patter  of  falling  drops  in  the  silence. 

Everything  inundated. 

Faces  float  off  in  a  red  dream. 

Still  the  song  of  the  sweet  succulent  patter. 


21 


Blood  — 

I  think  it  oozes  from  my  finger  tips. 

—  Or  maybe  it  drips  from  the  brow  of  Jesus. 

THE  CITY  AT  NIGHT 

Life  wriggles  in  and  out 

Through  the  narrow  ways 

And  circuitous  passages: 

Something  monstrous  and  horrible, 

A  passion  without  any  master, 

Male  sexual  fluid  trickling  through  the  darkness 

And  setting  fire  to  whatever  it  touches. 

That  is  the  master 

Bestowing  a  casual  caress  on  a  slave. 

Quiver  under  it! 


22 


VANITIES 


BREAD  POEMS 

LULLABY 

I  LEAN  my  heart  against  the  soft  bosomed  night: 
A  white  globed  breast, 
And  warm  and  silent  flowing, 
The  milk  of  the  moon. 

EMBARKATION  OF  CYTHERA 

Like  jellied  flowers 

My  inflated  curves 

Melt  in  the  peaceful  stagnance  of  the  bath. 

If  I  were  to  die 

I  would  resist  the  final  agony 

With  only  a  faint  quiver 

From  my  escaping  thighs. 

CHRISTIAN  LUXURIES 

The  red  fountain  of  shame  gushes  up  from  my  heart. 
I  throw  back  my  long  hair  and  the  fountain  floats  it  out 

25 


Like  a  fiery  fan. 

My  wide  stretched  arms  are  white  coral  branches. 

The  liquid  shadows  seek  between  my  amber  breasts. 

But  the  fire  is  cool. 
It  cannot  burn  me. 


NARROW  FLOWERS 

I  am  a  gray  lily. 

My  roots  are  deep. 

I  cannot  lift  my  hands 

For  one  thin  yellow  butterfly. 

Yet  last  night  I  grew  up  to  a  star. 

My  shade  swirled  mistily 

Seven  mountains  high. 

I  lifted  my  face  to  another  face. 

The  moon  made  a  burning  shadow  on  my  brow. 

Washed  by  the  light, 

My  sharp  breasts  silvered. 

My  dance  was  an  arc  of  mist 

From  west  to  east. 


EYES 

There  are  arms  of  ice  around  me, 
And  a  hand  of  ice  on  my  heart. 

26 


If  they  should  come  to  bury  me 

I  would  not  flinch  or  start. 

For  eyes  are  freezing  me  — 

Eyes  too  cold  for  hate. 

I  think  the  ground, 

Because  it  is  dark, 

A  warmer  place  to  wait. 

AFTER  YOUTH 

Oh,  that  mysterious  singing  sadness  of  youth! 
Exotic  colors  in  the  lamplit  darkness  of  wet  streets, 
Musk  and  roses  in  the  twilight, 
The  moon  in  the  park  like  a  golden  balloon  .  .  . 

Then  to  awaken  and  find  the  shadows  fled, 

The  music  gone  .  .  . 

Empty,  bleak! 

My  soul  has  grown  very  small  and  shriveled  in  my  body. 

It  no  longer  looks  out. 

It  rattles  around, 

And  inside  my  body  it  begins  to  look, 

Staring  all  around  inside  my  body, 

Like  a  crab  in  a  crevice, 

Staring  with  bulging  eyes 

At  the  strange  place  in  which  it  finds  itself. 


27 


THE  SHADOW  THAT  WALKS  ALONE 

The  silence  tugs  at  my  breast 

With  formless  lips, 

Like  a  heavy  baby, 

Attenuates  me, 

Draws  me  through  myself  into  it. 

I  sit  in  the  womb  of  an  idiot, 

Helpless  before  its  mouthing  tenderness. 

The  huge  flap  ears  are  attentive, 

And  the  soundless  face  bends  toward  me 

In  horrible  lovingness. 

BIBLE  TRUTH 

To  die  .  .  . 

Oh,  cool  river! 

To  float  there  with  nothing  to  resist  — 

One  ripple  of  silence  spreads  out  from  another. 

My  spirit  widens  so, 

Circle  beyond  circle. 

I  hold  up  the  stars  no  longer  with  the  pupils  of  my  eyes. 

Hands,  legs,  arms  float  off  from  me. 

I  melt  like  flakes  of  snow. 

I  am  no  more  opposed. 
I  am  no  more. 

28 


THE  MATERNAL  BREAST 

I  walked  straight  and  long, 

But  I  never  found  you. 

I  was  looking  for  a  hill  of  a  hundred  breasts, 

A  hill  modeled  after  the  statues  of  Diana  of  the  Ephe- 

sians. 

I  was  looking  for  a  hill  of  mounds  hairy  with  grass, 
And  a  place  to  lie  down. 

AIR  FOR  G  STRING 

White  hands  of  God 

With  fingers  like  strong  twigs  flowering 

Rock  me  in  leaves  of  iron, 

Leaves  of  blue. 

Hands  of  God 

Fashioned  of  clouds 

Have  finger  tips  that  balance  the  almond  white  moon. 

The  pale  sky  is  a  flower 

White  tipped  and  pink  tipped  with  dawn. 

White  hands  of  God  gather  the  blossoms  with  fingers 

that  hold  me, 

Cloud  fingers  like  milk  in  the  azure  night, 
Weaving  strong  chords. 


29 


DESTINY 

I  am  lost  in  the  vast  cave  of  night. 
No  sound  but  the  far-off  tinkle  of  stars, 
And  the  cry  of  a  bird 
Muffled  in  shadows. 

The  light  flows  in  remotely 

Through  the  hollow  moon, 

Dim  strange  brilliance 

From  waters  beyond  the  sky. 

Groping, 

I  listen  to  the  harsh  tinkle  of  the  far-off  stars, 

Feel  the  clammy  shadows  about  my  shoulders. 


30 


THE  RED  CROSS 

HECTIC 

I 

Ruby  winged  pains  flash  through  me, 

Jewel  winged  agonies: 

They  vanish, 

Carrying  me  with  them 

Without  my  knowing  it. 

II 

Pain  sends  out  long  tentacles 
And  sucks. 

When  I  have  given  up  struggling 
He  takes  me  into  his  arms. 

ISOLATION  WARD 

We  are  the  separate  centers  of  consciousness 
Of  all  the  universes. 

31 


We  vibrate  statically  on  a  trillion  golden  wires. 
Our  trillion  golden  fingers  twine  in  the  weltering  dark 
ness, 

And  grasp  tremblingly, 
Aware  in  agony 
Of  the  things  we  can  never  know. 

THE  RED  CROSS 

Antiseptic  smells  that  corrode  the  nostrils 
Crumble  me, 
Eat  me  deep; 

And  my  garments  disintegrate: 
First  my  nightgown, 

Leaving  my  naked  arms  and  legs  disjointed, 
Sprawled  about  the  bed  in  postures  meaningless  to  the 
point  of  obscenity. 

My  breasts  shrivel, 

The  nipples  drawn  like  withered  plums 

To  the  eyes  of  the  bright  young  nurse. 

I  am  nothing  but  a  dull  eye  myself, 

An  eye  out  of  a  socket, 

Bursting, 

Contorted  with  hideous  wisdom. 


32 


Eye  to  eye 

We  fight  in  the  death  throes, 

Myself  and  the  young  nurse. 

Her  firm,  crisp  aproned  bosom 

Leans  toward  the  bed, 

As  she  smooths  the  rumpled  pillow  back 

With  long  cool  fingers. 

HOSPITAL  NIGHT 

I  am  Will-o'-the-Wisp. 

I  float  in  a  little  pool  of  delirium, 

Phosphorescent  velvet. 

My  fire  is  like  a  breath 

That  blows  my  illness  in  circles, 

Widening  it  so  far 

That  I  cannot  see  the  edge. 

It  is  one  with  the  night  sky. 

My  fire  has  blown  this  vastness, 

But  I  strain  and  flicker  trying  to  escape  from  it. 

I  want  to  exist  without  the  darkness 

That  makes  my  breath  so  bright. 

I  want  the  morning  to  thin  my  light. 


33 


DOMESTIC  CANTICLE 

SPRING  SONG 

Sap  crashes  suddenly  through  dead  roots : 

Sap  that  bites, 

Harsh, 

Impatient, 

Bitter  as  gold. 

My  God,  my  sisters,  how  dark,  how  silent,  how  heavy  is 

earth! 

Shoulders  strain  against  this  eternity, 
Against  the  trickling  loam. 

Earth  dropped  on  the  heart  like  a  nerveless  hand: 
On  the  red  mouth 
Earth  coils, 
Heavy  as  a  serpent. 
Light  has  come  back  to  the  darkness, 
To  the  shadow, 
To  the  coolness  of  blackened  leaves. 


35 


HOME  AGAIN 

Where  I  used  to  be 

I  could  hear  the  sea. 

The  black  ragged  palm  fronds  flung  themselves  against 

the  twilight  sky. 

The  moon  stared  up  from  the  water  like  a  fish's  eye. 
I  had  the  loneliness  that  sings. 
It  made  me  light  and  gave  me  wings. 

Is  it  the  dust  and  the  iron  railings  and  the  blank  red 

brick 

That  makes  me  sick? 
There  is  no  space  to  be  lonely  any  more 
And  crumbling  feet  on  a  city  street 
Sound  past  the  door. 

To  A  SICK  CHILD 

At  the  end  of  the  day 

The  sun  rusts. 

The  street  is  old  and  quiet. 

The  houses  are  of  iron. 

The  shadows  are  iron. 

Shrill  screams  of  children  scrape  the  iron  sky. 

Let  us  lock  ourselves  in  the  light. 


36 


Let  the  sun  nail  us  to  the  hot  earth  with  his  spikes  of 

fire, 

And  perhaps  when  the  darkness  rushes  past 
It  will  forget  us. 

LOVE  SONG 
(To  C.  K.  S.) 

Little  father, 

Little  mother, 

Little  sister, 

Little  brother, 

Little  lover, 

How  can  I  go  on  living 

With  you  away  from  me? 

How  can  I  get  up  in  the  morning 

And  go  to  bed  at  night, 

And  you  not  here? 

How  can  I  bear  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset, 

And  the  moonrise  and  the  moonset, 

And  the  flowers  in  the  garden? 

How  can  I  bear  them, 

You, 

My  little  father, 

Little  mother, 

37 


Little  sister, 
Little  brother, 
Little  lover? 


QUARREL 


Abruptly,  from  a  wall  of  clear  cold  silence 

Like  an  icy  glass, 

Myself  looked  out  at  me 

And  would  not  let  me  pass. 

I  wanted  to  reach  you 

Before  it  was  too  late; 

But  my  frozen  image  barred  the  way 

With  vacant  hate. 

MY  CHILD 

Tentacles  thrust  imperceptibly  into  the  future 

Helplessly  sense  the  fire. 

A  serpentine  nerve 

Impelled  to  lengthen  itself  generation  after  generation 

Pierces  the  labyrinth  of  flames 

To  rose-colored  extinction. 


38 


THE  TUNNEL 


I  have  made  you  a  child  in  the  womb, 

Holding  you  in  sweet  and  final  darkness. 

All  day  as  I  walk  out 

I  carry  you  about. 

I  guard  you  close  in  secret  where 

Cold  eyed  people  cannot  stare. 

I  am  melted  in  the  warm  dear  fire, 

Lover  and  mother  in  the  same  desire. 

Yet  I  am  afraid  of  your  eyes 

And  their  possible  surprise. 

Would  you  be  angry  if  I  let  you  know 

That  I  carried  you  so? 

II 

I  could  kiss  you  to  death 

Hoping  that,  your  protest  obliterated, 

You  would  be 

Utterly  me. 

Yet  I  know  —  how  well !  — 

Like  a  shell, 

Hollow  and  echoing, 

Death  would  be, 

With  a  roar  of  the  past 

39 


Like  the  roar  of  the  sea. 

And  what  is  lifeless  I  cannot  kill! 

So  you  would  make  death  work  your  will. 

Ill 

In  most  intimate  touch  we  meet, 

Lip  to  lip, 

Breast  to  breast, 

Sweet. 

Suddenly  we  draw  apart 

And  start. 

Like  strangers  surprised  at  a  road's  turning 

We  see, 

I,  the  naked  you; 

You,  the  naked  me. 

There  was  something  of  neither  of  us 

That  covered  the  hours, 

And  we  have  only  touched  each  other's  bodies 

Through  veils  of  flowers. 

But  let  us  smile  kindly, 

Like  those  already  dead, 

On  the  warm  flesh 

And  the  marriage  bed. 


40 


IV 

The  blanched  stars  are  withered  with  light. 

The  moon  is  pale  with  trying  to  remember  something. 

Light,  straining  for  a  stale  birth, 

Distends  the  darkness. 

I,  in  the  midst  of  this  travail, 

Bring  forth  — 

The  solitude  is  so  vast 

I  am  glad  to  be  freed  of  it. 

Is  it  the  moon  I  see  there, 

Or  does  my  own  white  face 

Hang  in  blank  agony  against  the  sky 

As  if  blinded  with  giving? 


Little  inexorable  lips  at  my  breast 
Drink  me  out  of  me 
In  a  fine  sharp  stream. 
Little  hands  tear  me  apart 
To  find  what  they  need. 

I  am  weak  with  love  of  you, 
Little  body  of  hate! 


41 


BRUISED  SUNLIGHT 


WATER  MOODS 

RAIN  ON  THE  SEASHORE 

/"BURLING  petals  of  rain  lick  silver  tongues. 

^-^  Fluffy  spray  is  blown  loosely  up  between  thin  silver 

lips 
And  slithers,  tinkling  in  hard  green  ice,  down  the  gray 

rocks. 

White  darkness — 

An  expressionless  horizon  stares  with  stone  eyes. 

The  sea  lifts  its  immense  self  heavily 

And  falls  down  in  sickly  might. 

The  emptiness  is  like  a  death  of  which  no  one  shall  ever 
know. 

SHIP  MASTS 

They  stand 

Stark  as  church  spires; 

Bare  stalks 

45 


That  will  blossom 
(Tomorrow  perhaps) 
Into  flowers  of  the  wind. 


MONOCHROME 

Gray  water, 

Gray  sky  drifting  down  to  the  sea. 

The  night, 

Old,  ugly,  and  stern, 

Lies  upon  the  water, 

Quivering  in  the  twilight 

Like  a  tortured  belly. 

ANTIQUE 

Clouds  flung  back 

Make  fan-shaped  rays  of  faded  crimson 

Brocaded  on  dim  blue  satin; 

Through  the  wrinkled  dust-blue  water 

The  little  boat 

Glides  above  its  sunken  shadow. 

ECHO  LOOKS  AT  HERSELF 

The  ship  passes  in  the  night 
And  drags  jagged  reflections 
Like  gilded  combs 

46 


Through  the  obscure  water. 

Spun  glass  daisies  float  on  a  gold-washed  mirror. 

SPELL 

In  the  dark  I  can  hear  the  patter. 

Bare  white  feet  are  running  across  the  water. 

White  feet  as  bright  as  silver 

Are  flashing  under  dull  blue  dresses. 

Wet  palms  beat, 

Impatiently, 

Petulantly, 

Slapping  the  wet  rocks. 


47 


HUNGRY  SHADOWS 

RAINY  TWILIGHT 

Dim  gold  faces  float  in  the  windows. 

Dim  gold  faces  and  gilded  arms  .  .  . 

They  are  clinging  along  the  silver  ladders  of  rain; 

They  are  climbing  with  ivory  lamps  held  high, 

Starry  lamps 

Over  which  the  silver  ladders 

Thicken  into  nets  of  twilight. 

THE  STORM 

Herds  of  black  elephants, 

Rushing  over  the  plains, 

Trample  the  stars. 

The  ivory  tusk  of  the  leader 

(Or  is  it  the  moon?) 

Flashes,  and  is  gone. 

Tree  tops  bend ; 

Crash ; 

Fire  from  hoofs; 

49 


And  still  they  rush  on, 
Trampling  the  stars, 
Bellowing, 
Roaring. 


NYMPHS 


The  drift  of  shadows  on  the  mountainside, 

Blue  and  purple  gold ! 

Purple  dust  sifting  through  fingers  of  ivory: 

Cool  purple  on  ivory  breasts. 

I  see  arms  and  breasts, 

Upturned  chins, 

Slanting  through  the  dust  of  purple  leaves: 

Ivory  and  gold, 

Bare  breasts  and  laughing  eyes, 

That  drift  on  the  shadowy  surf 

And  surge  against  the  side  of  the  mountain. 

WINTER  DAWN 

Cloudy  dawn  flower  unfolds; 
Moon  moth  gyrates  slowly; 
Snow  maiden  lets  down  her  hair, 
And  in  one  shining  silence, 
It  slips  to  earth. 


50 


THE  WALL  OF  NIGHT 

SPRINGTIME  TOO  SOON 

The  moon  is  a  cool  rose  in  a  blue  bowl. 

There  are  no  more  birds. 

The  last  leaf  has  fallen. 

The  trees  in  the  twilight  are  naked  old  women. 

The  moon  is  an  old  woman  at  the  door  of  her  tomb. 

Clouds  combed  out  in  the  wind 

Are  gray  hair  she  has  wound  about  her  neck. 

The  water  is  an  old  gray  face  that  mirrors  the  springtime. 

STARS 

Like  naked  maidens 
Dancing  with  no  thought  of  lovers, 
Blinking  stars  with  dewy  silver  breasts 
Pass  through  the  darkness. 
White  and  eager, 
They  glide  on 

Toward  the  gray  meshed  web  of  dawn 

51 


And  the  mystery  of  morning. 

Then, 

About  me, 

The  white  cloud  walls 

Stand  as  sternly  as  sepulchers, 

And  from  all  sides 

Peer  and  linger  the  startled  faces, 

Pale  in  the  harshness  of  the  sunlight. 

NIGHT  Music 

Through  the  blue  water  of  night 

Rises  the  white  bubble  of  silence  — 

Rises, 

And  breaks: 

The  shivered  crystal  bell  of  the  moon, 

Dying  away  in  star  splinters. 

The  still  mists  bear  the  sound 

Beyond  the  horizon. 

— -    —      

NOCTURNE  OF  WATER 

A  shining  bird  plunges  to  the  deep, 
Becomes  entangled  with  seaweed, 
And  never  more  emerges. 
Pale  golden  feathers  drift  across  the  sky, 
Fire  feathered  clouds, 

52 


Riding  the  weightless  billows  of  back  velvet 
On  the  horizon. 

THE  LONG  MOMENT 

A  white  sigh  clouds  the  fields 

Into  quietness. 

Above  the  billowed  snow 

I  drift, 

One  year, 

Two  years, 

Three  years. 

Hurt  eyes  mist  in  the  blue  behind  me. 

The  moon  uncoils  in  glistening  ropes 

And  I  glide  downward  along  the  dripping  rays 

To  a  marble  lake. 

DESIGNS 

I 
Night 

Fields  of  black  tulips 
And  swarms  of  gold  bees 
Drinking  their  bitter  honey. 


53 


II 

New  Moon 

Above  the  gnarled  old  tree 

That  clings  to  the  bleakest  side  of  the  mountain, 

A  torch  of  ivory  and  gold; 

And  across  the  sky, 

The  silver  print 

Of  spirit  feet, 

Fled  from  the  wonder. 

Ill 

Tropic  Moon 

The  glowing  anvil, 

Beaten  by  the  winds; 

Star  sparks, 

Burning  and  dying  in  the  heavens; 

The  furnace  glare 

Red 

On  the  polished  palm  leaves. 

IV 

Winter  Moon 

A  little  white  thistle  moon 
Blown  over  the  cold  crags  and  fens: 

54 


A  little  white  thistle  moon 
Blown  across  the  frozen  heather. 

ARGO 

White  sails 

Unbillowed  by  any  wind, 

The  moon  ship, 

Among  shoals  of  cloud, 

Stranded  stars, 

Bare  bosoms, 

And  netted  hair  of  light, 

On  the  shores  of  the  world. 

JAPANESE  MOON 

Thick  clustered  wistaria  clouds, 

A  young  girl  moon  in  a  mist  of  almond  flowers, 

Boughs  and  boughs  of  light; 

Then  a  round-faced  ivory  lady 

Nodding  among  fading  chrysanthemums. 

HOT  MOON 

Moon  rise. 

Great  gong  sounds,  shining  — 

Little  feet  run  away. 

Loud  and  solemn,  the  funeral  gong. 

Little  feet  run  away. 

55 


THE  NAIAD 

The  moon  rises, 
Glistening, 
Naked  white, 
Out  of  her  stream. 

Wet  marble  shoulders 

Shake  star  drops  on  the  clouds. 

FLOODTIDE 

Across  the  shadows  of  the  surf 

The  lights  of  the  ship 

Twinkle  despondently. 

The  clinging  absorbent  gray  darkness 

Sucks  them  into  itself: 

Drinks  the  pale  golden  tears  greedily. 

MOUNTAIN  PASS  IN  AUGUST 

Night  scatters  grapes  for  the  harvest. 

The  moon  burns  like  a  leaf. 

Along  the  mountain  path 

A  thin  streak  of  light 

Creeps  hungrily  with  its  silver  belly  to  the  earth. 

The  old  hound  laps  up  the  shadows. 

Her  teats  drip  the  brighter  darkness. 

56 


CONTEMPORARIES 


HARMONICS 
YOUNG  MEN 


FAUNS, 
Eternal  pagans, 
Beautiful  and  obscene, 
Leaping  through  the  street 
With  a  flicker  of  hoofs, 
And  a  flash  of  tails, 

You  want  dryads 

And  they  give  you  prostitutes. 


YOUNG  GIRLS 


Your  souls  are  wet  flowers, 
Bathed  in  kisses  and  blood. 
Golden  Clyties, 
The  wheel  of  light 
Rushes  over  your  breasts. 


59 


HOUSE  SPIRITS 

Women  are  flitting  around  in  their  shells. 

Pale  dilutions  of  the  waters  of  the  world 

Come  through  the  windows. 

Back  and  forth  the  women  glide  in  their  little  waters ; 

Cellar  to  garret  and  garret  to  cellar, 

Winding  in  and  out  under  door  arches  and  down  pas- 


They  and  their  spawn, 
In  the  shell, 
In  the  cavern. 

You  may  come  in  the  shell  to  overpower  her, 

Males, 

But  in  the  shell,  in  the  shell. 

She  cannot  be  torn  from  the  shell  without  dying; 

And  what  is  the  pleasure  of  intercourse  with  the  dead? 

AT  THE  MEETING  HOUSE 

Souls  as  dry  as  autumn  leaves,    . 
The  color  long  since  out. 

The  organ  plays. 

The  leaves  crackle  and  rustle  a  little; 

Then  sink  down. 


60 


Old  ladies  with  gray  moss  on  their  chins, 

Old  men  with  camphor  and  cotton  packed  around  their 

heads, 
Thin  child  spirits,  sharp  and  shrill  as  whistles. 

Gray  old  trees; 
Gaunt  old  woods; 
Souls  as  dry  as  leaves 
After  autumn  is  past. 

CHRISTIANS 

Blind,  they  storm  up  from  the  pit. 

You  gave  them  the  force, 

You,  when  You  poured  the  measure  of  agony  into  them. 

Didn't  You  know  what  it  would  be, 

Giving  blind  people  fire? 

Not  gold  and  red  and  amber  fire, 

But  marsh  fire. 

Fire  of  ice, 

Suffering  forged  into  suffering ! 

They  are  coming  up  now. 

The  sword  is  uplifted  in  the  hands  of  the  monster. 

My  valiant  little  puppets, 

Did  you  think  you  could  stand  out  against  this? 

Pierrot  and  Columbine  breeding  in  the  flowers.  .  .  . 

There  must  be  no  flowers. 

61 


DEVIL'S  CRADLE 

Black  man  hanged  on  a  silver  tree; 

(Down  by  the  river, 

Slow  river, 

White  breast. 

White  face  with  blood  on  it.) 

Black  man  creaks  in  the  wind, 

Knees  slack. 

Brown  poppies,  melting  in  moonlight, 

Swerve  on  glistening  stems 

Across  an  endless  field 

To  the  music  of  a  hlood  white  face 

And  a  tired  little  devil  child 

Rocked  to  sleep  on  a  rope. 


WOMEN 

Crystal  columns, 

When  they  bend  they  crack; 

Brittle  souls, 

Conforming,  yet  not  conforming  — 

Mirrors. 

Masculine  souls  pass  across  the  mirrors 
Whirling,  gliding  ecstasies  — 
Retreating,  retreating, 

62 


Dimly,  dimly, 

Like  dreams  fading  across  the  mirrors. 

Then  the  mirrors, 

Stark  and  brilliant  in  the  sunshine, 

Blank  as  the  desert, 

Blank  as  the  Sphinx, 

Winking  golden  eyes  in  the  twinkles  of  light, 

Silent,  immutable,  vacuous  infinity, 

Illimitable  capacity  for  absorption, 

Absorbing  nothing. 

Have  the  shapes  and  the  shadows  been  swallowed  up 

In  your  recesses  without  depth, 

You  drinkers  of  life, 

Twinkling  maliciously 

Your  golden  yellow  eyes, 

Mirrors  winking  in  the  sunshine? 

PENELOPE 

Gray  old  spinners, 

Weaving  with  the  crafty  fibers  of  your  souls; 

Nothing  was  given  you  but  those  impalpable  threads. 

Yet  you  have  bound  the  race, 
Stranglers, 

63 


With  your  silver  spun  mysteries. 

All  the  cruel, 

All  the  mad, 

The  foolish, 

And  the  beautiful,  too: 

It  all  belongs  to  you 

Since  the  first  time 

That  you  began  to  drop  the  filmy  threads 

When  the  world  was  half  asleep. 

Sometimes  you  are  young  girls; 

Sometimes  there  are  roses  in  your  hair. 

But  I  know  you  — 

Sitting  back  there  in  the  hollow  shadows  of  your  wombs. 

The  crafty  fibers  of  your  souls 

Are  woven  in  and  out 

With  the  fibers  of  life. 

POOR  PEOPLE'S  DREAMS 

Sometimes  women  with  eyes  like  wet  green  berries 

Glide  across  the  slick  mirror  of  their  own  smiles 

And  vanish  through  lengths  of  gold  and  marble  drawing 

rooms. 

The  marble  smiles, 
As  sensuous  as  snow; 
Hips  of  the  Graces; 

64 


Shoulders  of  Clytie; 
Breasts  frozen  as  foam, 
Frozen  as  camelia  bloom; 
Mounds  of  marble  flesh, 
Inexplicable  wonder  of  white.  .  .  . 

I  dream  about  statuesque  beauties 

Who  look  from  the  shadows  of  opera  boxes; 

Or  elegant  ladies  in  novels  of  eighteen  thirty, 

At  the  hunt  ball  .  .  . 

Reflections  in  a  polish  floor, 

A  portrait  by  Renoir, 

A  Degas  dancing  girl, 

English  country  houses, 

An  autumn  afternoon  in  the  Bois, 

Something  I  have  read  of  ... 

In  sleep  one  vision  retreating  through  another, 

Like  mirrors  being  doors  to  other  mirrors, 

Satin,  and  lace,  and  white  shoulders, 

And  elegant  ladies, 

Dancing,  dancing. 


65 


FOR  WIVES  AND  MISTRESSES 

Death, 

Being  a  woman, 

Being  passive  like  all  final  things, 

Being  a  mother, 

Waits. 

Shining  faces 

Gray  and  melt  into  her  flesh. 

Death  envies  those  asleep  in  her, 

Little  children  who  have  come  back, 

Fiery  faces, 

Bright  for  a  moment  in  the  darkness, 

Extinguished  softly  in  her  womb. 


66 


PORTRAITS 

PORTRAIT  OF  RICH  OLD  LADY 

Old  lady  talks, 

Spins  from  her  lips 

Warp  and  woof 

Of  teapots,  tables,  napery, 

Sanitary  toilets, 

Old  bedsteads,  pictures  on  walls, 

And  fine  lace, 

Spins  a  cocoon  of  this  secondary  life. 

Warm  and  snug  is  old  lady's  belly. 

Old  lady  makes  Venus  Aphrodite 

Parvenue. 

Old  lady 

Arranges  places  for  courtesans 

In  warm  outbuildings  on  back  streets. 

NIGGER 

Nigger  with  flat  cheeks  and  swollen  purple  lips; 
Nigger  with  loose  red  tongue; 

67 


Flat  browed  nigger, 

Your  skull  peaked  at  the  zenith, 

The  stretched  glistening  skin 

Covered  with  tight  coiled  springs  of  hair: 

I  am  up  here  cold. 

I  am  white  man. 

You  are  still  warm  and  sweet 

With  the  darkness  you  were  born  in. 

THE  MAIDEN  MOTHER 

He  has  a  squat  body, 

Glowering  brows, 

And  bulging  eyes. 

Lustful  contemplation  of  the  meat  pie 

Is  written  all  over  his  sweating  face. 

The  thin  woman  with  the  meek  voice, 
Who  has  carried  him  so  long  in  her  body 
And  despairs  of  giving  him  birth, 
Watches  over  him  in  secret 
With  bitter  and  resentful  tenderness. 

A  Pious  WOMAN 

You  can  bury  your  face  in  her  thick  soul  of  cotton  bat 
ting 

And  smell  candle  wax  and  church  incense. 

68 


When  she  dies  she  must  be  burned. 

Laid  in  the  ground  she  would  only  soak  up  moisture 

And  get  soggy, 

As  now  she  has  a  way  of  soaking  up  tears 

Never  meant  for  her. 

A  VERY  OLD  ROSE  JAR 

She  ran  across  the  lawn  after  the  cat 

And  I  saw  through  the  old  maid,  as  through  a  shadow, 

A  young  girl  in  a  white  muslin  dress  running  to  meet  her 

lover. 

There  was  clashing  of  cymbals, 
And  the  flash  of  nereids'  arms  in  autumn  leaves. 
A  sharp  high  note  died  out  like  an  ascending  light. 
Something  sweet  and  wanton  faded  from  the  old  maid's 

lips  — 

Something  of  Pierrot  chasing  after  love, 
A  bacchante  dying  in  her  sleep, 
A  shadow, 
And  a  gray  cat. 

THE  NIXIE 

He  lies  in  cool  shadows  safe  under  rocks, 
His  eyes  brown  stones, 
Worn  smooth  and  soft, 

69 


But  uncrumbled. 

He  reaches  forth  covert  child-claws 

To  tickle  the  silver  bellies  of  the  little  blind  fish 

As  they  swim  secretly  above  him. 

He  laughs  — 

The  school  splinters,  panic  stricken. 

As  we  stare  through  the  lucid  gold  water 

He  gazes  up  at  us  from  his  shadowy  retreat 

In  combative  safety. 

There  are  times  when  he  pretends  to  himself  that  he  is  a 


Water  god,  land  god,  god-in-the-sky. 
We  cannot  laugh  at  his  grotesquerie. 
We  are  wistful  before  the  pathetic  gallantries  of  his  im 
agination. 

OLD  LADIES'  VALHALLA 

I  am  thinking  of  a  little  house, 

A  pretty  gray  silk  dress, 

And  a  little  maid  with  a  tidy  white  apron. 

I  am  thinking  of  thin  yellow  angels 
Flying  out  of  Sevres  china  tea  cups, 
And  a  cool  spirit  with  slanting  green  eyes, 
Who  peers  at  me  through  the  screen  of  plants 

70 


I  have  placed  in  the  corner  between  the  hearth  and  the 

window. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  peace  in  one's  own  little  home 
When  the  afternoon  sunshine  drips  on  the  shiny  floor, 
And  the  rugs  are  in  order, 
And  the  roses  in  the  bowl  plunge  into  shadow 
Like  pink  nymphs  into  a  pool, 
While  there  is  no  sound  to  be  heard  above  the  hum  of 

the  teakettle 
Save  the  benevolent  buzzing  of  flies  in  -the  clean  sash 

curtain. 

PORTRAITS  OF  POETS 


(For  L.  R.) 

To  rush  over  dark  waters, 

A  swift  bird  with  cruel  talons; 

To  seize  life  — 

Your  life  for  her  — 

To  hold  it, 

Hold  it  struggling  — 

To  kiss  it. 


71 


II 

Crystal  self-containment, 

Giving  out  only  what  is  sent. 

Startled, 

The  circumference  retreats 

As  it  mounts  higher,  flamelike, 

Still  and  clear  without  radiance, 

Ascending  without  self-explanation. 

A  skeleton  falls  apart 

With  the  dignity  of  comprehensible  pathos, 

The  bones  bleached  by  denial. 

HI 

With  the  impalpable  lightness  of  May  breezes 

Begins  a  battle  of  flower  petals: 

Cowering  in  the  primrose  whirlwind  his  lips  have  blown, 

The  little  grotesque  with  the  shattered  heart, 

Fearful, 

Yet  sinister  in  his  fearfulness. 

THEODORE  DREISER 

The  man  body  jumbled  out  of  the  earth,  half  formed, 

Clay  on  the  feet, 

Heavy  with  the  lingering  might  of  chaos. 

72 


The  man  face  so  high  above  the  feet 
As  if  lonesome  for  them  like  a  child. 
The  veins  that  beat  heavily  with  the  music  they  but  half 

understood 

Coil  languidly  around  the  heart 
And  lave  it  in  the  death  stream 
Of  a  grand  impersonal  benignance. 

PlETA 

The  child  - 

Warm  chubby  thighs, 

Fat  brown  arms, 

An  unsurprised  face  — 

Cries  for  jam. 

The  mother  buys  him  with  jam. 

An  old  woman, 

Tottering  on  lean  leather  skinned  legs, 

Sucks  with  glazing  eyes 

The  crystal  silken  milk 

That  flows  from  the  death  wound 

In  a  young  flower-soft,  jewel-soft  body. 


73 


BRAZIL  THROUGH  A  MIST 


THE  RANCH 

TROPICAL  LIFE 

WHITE  flower, 
Your  petals  float  away 
But  I  hardly  hear  them. 

TWENTY-FOUR  HOURS 

The  day  is  so  long  and  white, 

A  road  all  dust, 

Smooth  monotony; 

And  the  night  at  the  end, 

A  hill  to  be  climbed, 

Slowly,  laboriously, 

While  the  stars  prick  our  hands 

Like  thistles. 

RAINY  SEASON 

A  flock  of  parrakeets 

Hurled  itself  through  the  mist; 

77 


Harsh  wild  green 

And  clamor-tongued 

Through  the  dim  white  forest. 

They  vanished, 

And  the  lips  of  Silence 

Sucked  at  the  roots  of  Life. 

MAIL  ON  THE  RANCH 

The  old  man  on  the  mule 
Opens  the  worn  saddle  bags, 
And  takes  out  the  papers. 

From  the  outer  world 

The  thoughts  come  stabbing, 

To  taunt,  baffle,  and  stir  me  to  revolt. 

I  beat  against  the  sky, 

Against  the  winds  of  the  mountain, 

But  my  cries,  grown  thin  in  all  this  space, 

Are  diluted  with  emptiness  .  .  . 

Like  the  air, 

Thin  and  wide, 

Touching  everything, 

Touching  nothing. 


78 


THE  VAMPIRE  BAT 

What  was  it  that  came  out  of  the  night? 

What  was  it  that  went  away  in  the  night? 

The  little  brown  hen  is  huddled  in  the  fence  corner, 

Eyes  already  glazing. 

How  should  she  know  what  came  out  of  the  night, 

Or  what  was  taken  away  in  the  night? 

A  shadow  passed  across  the  moon. 

The  wind  rustled  in  the  mango  trees. 

And  now,  in  the  morning, 

The  little  brown  hen  is  huddled  in  the  fence  corner, 

Eyes  already  glazing; 

Because  a  shadow  passed  across  the  moon, 

And  the  wind  rustled  in  the  mango  trees. 

CONSERVATISM 

The  turkeys, 

Like  hoop-skirted  old  ladies 

Out  walking, 

Display  their  solemn  propriety. 

A  terrible  force, 

Hungry  and  destructive, 

Emanates  from  their  mistily  blinking  eyes. 


LITTLE  PIGS 

Little  tail  quivering, 

Wrinkled  snout  thrusting  up  the  mud: 

He  will  find  God 

If  he  keeps  on  like  that. 

THE  SILLY  EWE 

The  silly  ewe  comes  smelling  up  to  me. 
Her  tail  wriggles  without  hinges, 
Both  ends  of  it  at  once  and  equal. 
Yesterday  the  parrot  bit  her; 
Last  week  the  jaguar  ate  her  young  one; 
But  experience  teaches  her  nothing. 

THE  SNAKE 

The  chickens  are  at  home  in  the  barnyard, 

The  pigs  in  the  swill, 

And  the  flowers  in  the  garden ; 

But  where  do  you  belong, 

With  your  lacquered  coils, 

0  snake? 

THE  YEAR 

Days  and  days  float  by. 
On  the  sides  of  the  mountains 
Blue  shadows  shift 
And  sift  into  silence. 

80 


Morning  .  .  . 

The  cock  crows. 

There  is  that  rosy  glow  on  the  mountain's  edge; 

Jose  in  the  door  of  his  hut; 

Maria's  lace  bobbins 

Tapping,  tapping. 

Evening  .  .  . 

The  parrot's  shrill  cry; 

Pale  silver  green  stars. 

Night  .  .  . 

The  ghosts  of  dead  Joses 

And  dead  Marias 

Sitting  in  the  moonlight. 

Peace — 

Depressing, 

Interminable 

Peace. 

BURNING  MOUNTAINS 


A  herder  set  fire  to  the  grass 
On  the  other  side  of  the  valley, 
And  now  a  beautiful  Indian  woman 
Bends,  whirls,  undulates, 
Tosses  her  gold  braceleted  arms  into  the  air  — 
Then  sinks  into  her  gray  veil. 

81 


II 

Fire,  dying  in  smoke, 
You  stir  behind  the  haze 
Like  a  warrior 
Who  threatens  in  his  sleep. 

VILLA  NOVA  DA  SBRRA 

The  mountains  are  as  dull  and  sodden 

As  drunkards'  faces, 

And  the  white  forgetfulness  of  rain 

Is  like  a  delirium. 

Along  the  filthy  crooked  streets  of  the  little  town, 

Street  lamps  float  in  pools  of  mist  — 

The  eyes  of  children  being  beaten. 

RAIN  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Like  inexorable  peace, 

The  mists  march  through  the  mountains. 

One  by  one  the  grim  peaks  sink  into  the  cold  arms  of  the 

unspoken. 

The  little  town  with  the  pink  and  white  houses 
Looses  its  hold  on  the  ridge  of  hills 
And  floats  among  cloud  tops. 
A   shaggy   donkey,  cropping  grass  in  the  sequestered 

church  yard, 

82 


Walks,  with  a  leisurely  air, 
Into  a  wind  driven  abyss. 

TROPICAL  WINTER 

The  afternoon  is  frozen  with  memories, 

Radiant  as  ice. 

The  sun  sets  amidst  the  agued  trembling  of  the  leaves, 

Sinking  right  down  through  the  gold  air 

Into  the  arms  of  the  sea. 

The  enameled  wings  of  the  palm  tree* 

Keep  shivering,  shivering, 

Beating  the  gold  air  thin.  .  .  . 

TALK  ON  THE  RANCH 

It  is  cold  in  the  circle  of  mountains, 
A  fireless  hearth. 

The  stars  drift  by  like  autumn  leaves. 
Only  the  rustle  — 
Then,  close  together, 
Our  talk, 
For  and  counter, 
One  grating  against  the  other, 
Rubs  a  little  fire 
And  we  warm  each  other 

There  in  the  midst  of  the  hollow  clammy  circle. 

83 


LES  MALADIES  DES  PAYS  CHAUDS 

PRIDE  OF  RACE 

I  saw  his  young  Anglo-Saxon  form 

In  its  white  sailor  clothes 

Cleave  through  the  scampering  yellow  Latin  crowd, 

As  white  and  clean  as  the  blade  of  an  archangel; 

And,  as  he  reeled  along,  gloriously  drunk, 

Those  little  black  and  gold  dung  beetles 

Seemed  to  be  pushing  and  racing  over  his  body. 

DON  QUIXOTE  SOJOURNS  IN  Rio  DE  JANEIRO 

White  roses  climb  the  wall  of  night. 

A  pale  face  looks  from  a  window  in  the  sky. 

0  Moon,  is  it  because  you  have  seen  her  that  you  are 

beautiful? 
Is  she  happy  among  the  saints? 

1  placed  white  flowers  in  the  coffin. 

Are  they  the  blossoms  that  lie  scattered  along  the  hori 
zon, 
Tangled  in  your  light? 

85 


Dim  stars  drop  into  the  sea. 

So  you  give  my  flowers  back  to  me,  do  you,  Bella  Dona? 

I  might  gather  the  petals  and  carry  them  to  Antonietta  to 

trim  her  hats. 

So  much  for  life  with  a  little  negro  milliner 
In  the  Rua  Chile! 

CONVENT  MUSINGS 

Eleven  thousand  white-faced  virgins  in  the  sky. 

The  eyes  of  Our  Lady 

Smiling  through  a  rift  of  cloud. 

I  see  Sister  Maria  da  Gloria's  fat  shadow 

Pass  across  the  whitewashed  wall  by  the  window.  .  .  . 

Eleven  thousand  white-faced  virgins  — 

Stars  from  a  broken  rosary  — 

The  Southern  Cross  — 

Thrum,  thrum,  my  fingers  on  the  bench. 

I  sometimes  think  of  God 

As  an  enormous  emptiness 

Into  which  we  must  all  enter  at  last, 

Our  Lady  forgive  me. 


86 


GUITARRA 

*'  An  orange  tree  without  fruit, 

So  am  I  without  loves," 

His  heavy  lidded  eyes  sang  up  to  her. 

Her  glance  dropped  on  her  golden  globe  of  breast, 
And  on  the  baby. 

NOVEMBER 

Foreign  sailors  in  the  streets 

Are  as  sad  a  sight  as  wild  geese  in  the  winter  — 

There  was  one  boy  with  those  strange  young  blue  eyes 

Who  looked  at  me; 

And  a  long,  long  time  after  he  had  passed 

The  light  of  his  soul  got  to  me  — 

So  long  on  the  way  — 

Like  the  light  of  a  dead  star. 

What  makes  you  look  so  lonesome,  Blue  Eyes? 


87 


THE  COMING  OF  CHRIST 


THE  DEATH  OF  COLUMBINE 

DUET 

PIERROT  sings. 
The  moon,  a  clown  like  himself, 
Stares  down  upon  him 
With  vacuous  tenderness. 

For  a  moment  the  night  is  filled  with  rice  powder 
And  spangled  gauze. 
Then  two  shades  embracing  each  other 
Find  in  their  arms 
Only  the  darkness. 

FROM  A  MAN  DYING  ON  A  CROSS 

The  pains  in  my  palms  are  threads  of  sightless  fire 
Drawn  like  fiery  veins  through  blackened  marble  walls, 
Crashing  with  a  dull  roar 
To  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

Winey  peace.  .  .  . 
My  sick  blood  purrs. 

91 


Milky  bosoms  float  through  red  hair, 

Gaunt  faces  and  sick  eyes 

Beside  her  face. 

I  debauch  them  with  my  forgiveness. 

Only  her,  I  cannot  forgive. 

Moonlight  trembles  as  the  silk  of  her  garment, 

Perfumed  silk. 

The  cross  makes  a  long  harsh  shadow 

Rigid  on  the  sand. 

Her  white  feet  stir  across  the  shadow. 

LAGNIAPPE 

You  in  the  quiet  garden, 
You  with  the  death  sweet  smile, 
Before  you  speak  of  love  to  me 
Go  out  and  hate  awhile. 

The  kind  devil 

Has  a  tolerant  grin. 

He  flings  the  golden  gates  out  wide 

And  lets  poor  people  in. 

He  warms  them  in  his  bosom 

And  guards  their  pain. 

He  shows  them  hell  fields  that  are  bright 

And  skies  gentle  with  rain. 

92 


But  up  in  paradise 

The  stern  Lord  is  wise, 

And  Michael  with  his  flaming  sword 

Puts  out  the  angels'  eyes. 

HAIL  MARY! 

Pierrette  is  dead! 

Between  her  narrow  little  breasts 

They  have  laid  a  cross  of  lead. 

Her  tight  pale  lips  are  sunken. 

Her  fleshless  fingers  clutch  the  pall. 

Why  did  she  have  to  die  like  that, 

And  she  so  small? 

THE  DEATH  OF  COLUMBINE 

White  breast  beaten  in  sea  waves, 

Hair  tangled  in  foam, 

Lonely  sky, 

Desolate  horizon, 

Pale  and  shining  clouds : 

All  this  desolate  and  shining  sea  is  no  place  for  you, 

My  dead  Columbine. 

And  the  waves  will  bite  your  breast; 
And  the  wind,  that  does  not  know  death  from  life, 

93 


Will  leap  upon  you  and  leer  into  your  eyes 
And  suck  at  your  dead  lips. 

Oh,  my  little  Columbine, 

You  go  farther  and  farther  away  from  me, 

Out  where  there  are  no  ships 

And  the  solemn  clouds 

Soar  across  the  somber  horizon. 

PIERROT  LAUGHS 

You  are  old,  Pierrot, 

But  I  do  not  laugh 

As  in  harlequinade 

You  totter  down  the  path. 

Now  you  are  old,  Pierrot, 

And  drool  to  your  guitar, 

I  do  not  cast  you  off. 

Though  your  love  songs  are  as  feeble  as  a  winter  fly's 

I  do  not  scoff. 

Exultant 

I  cast  back  on  you 

What  you  gave  me, 

And  bind  you  with  the  unasked  love 

That  has  kept  me  from  being  free! 


94 


THE  TRANSMIGRATION  OF  CALIBAN 

Once  I  had  a  little  brother, 

An  ugly  little  brother  that  was  I. 

I  was  still  in  the  nursery 

When  they  nailed  him  to  a  clean  white  cross, 

And  said  he  was  dead. 

He  flapped  there  all  day, 

Thin  and  stiff  as  a  jumping  jack. 

But  when  I  had  gone  to  bed, 

And  the  lights  were  out, 

And  the  muslin  curtains  rustled  in  white  secrecy, 

And  through  the  thin  brown  glass  like  onion  skin 

I  could  see  the  bright  moon  sag  to  the  tree  tops 

With  a  heaviness  I  dimly  understood, 

While  the  haggard  branches  gauntly  strained, 

As  useless  to  the  moon  as  she  to  them, 

I  was  rocked  in  an  orange  and  umber  cradle, 

A  rosy  bubble  light  with  fireshine 

Floating  atop  the  cold, 

And  my  little  brother  was  burning  merrily, 

His  twisted  figure 

A  writhing  grotesque. 

Yet  his  face  never  moved 
And  never  burnt  up. 

95 


And  when  I  had  drifted  asleep 

I  still  saw  it 

Like  a  reflection  trapped  in  a  mirror. 

And  I  couldn't  brush  it  out! 

I  couldn't  brush  it  out! 

GUNDRY 

There  are  little  blood  flecks  on  the  snow. 

There  is  blood  in  the  heart  of  the  white  hyacinth. 

I  saw  her  pale  body  harsh  as  a  flash  of  lightning 

Between  the  gray  torsos  of  the  trees. 

She  had  a  little  child. 

She  held  a  little  child  in  her  breast. 

She  went  quickly  through  the  dim  forest. 

I  have  seen  her  feet. 

They  are  as  white  as  ivory. 

Where  she  ran  there  are  little  red  tracks. 

And  it  is  not  yet  springtime! 

VIENNESE  WALTZ 

Dresden  china  shepherdesses 

Whirl  in  the  silver  sunshine: 

Columbine  stars 

Float  in  gauze  petticoats  of  light.  ,  ,  . 


Little  Columbine  ghosts,  wrinkled  and  old, 

Smelling  of  jasmine  and  camphor: 

Prim  arms  folded  over  immaculate  breasts.  .  .  , 

The  pirouetting  tune  dies.  .  .  . 

Stars  and  little  faded  faces, 

Waltzing,  waltzing, 

Shoot  slowly  downward 

On  tinkling  music, 

Dusty  little  flowers 

Sinking  into  oblivion. 

After  the  music, 

Quiet, 

The  glacial  period  renewed, 

Monsters  on  earth, 

A  mad  conflagration  of  worlds  on  ardent  nights 

These  too  vanishing  — 
Silence  unending. 


97 


RESURRECTION 

IMMORTALITY 

Death  is  a  child  of  stone. 

Death  is  a  little  white  stone  goat. 

The  little  goat  child  dances  motionless. 

Little  kid  feet  make  a  circle  around  the  world: 

Bas-relief  of  Death, 

Little  stone  goats  capering  across  the  clouds. 

Perhaps  Death  is  nearest  in  the  spring. 
Then  Her  flower  clouds  the  woods  with  white  blossoms, 
Apple  blossoms,  quince  blossoms, 
Pear  snow. 

These  are  the  flowers  that  drift  in  the  hair  of  the  dead. 
The  sun  shines  on  stone  eyelids 
That  melt  with  light. 
This  smile  is  a  pale  happiness; 
It  glows  motionless 

On  the  rocky  hillside  and  the  long  stems  of  trees. 

99 


There  are  no  shadows  in  this  happy  light: 

The  glow  beat  by  little  goat  hoofs 

Chiseled  across  the  clouds  in  motionless  delight, 

While  suns  fade  behind  crumbling  hillsides 

And  hungry  illusions  vanish 

In  generation  after  generation. 

AUTUMN  NIGHT 

The  moon  is  as  complacent  as  a  frog. 

She  sits  in  the  sky  like  a  blind  white  stone, 

And  does  not  even  see  Love 

As  she  caresses  his  face  with  her  contemptuous  light. 

She  reaches  her  long  white  shivering  fingers 

Into  the  bowels  of  men. 

Her  tender  superfluous  probing  into  all  that  pollutes 

Is  like  the  immodesty  of  the  mad. 

She  is  a  mad  woman  holding  up  her  dress 

So  that  her  white  belly  shines. 

Haughty, 

Impregnable, 

Ridiculous, 

Silent  and  white  as  a  debauched  queen, 

Her  ecstasy  is  that  of  a  cold  and  sensual  child. 

She  is  Death  enjoying  Life, 

Innocently, 

Lasciviously. 

100 


VENUS'  FLY  TRAP 

A  wax  bubble  moon  trembles  on  the  honey-blue  horizon. 

Softly  heated  by  your  breast 

Pearl  wax  languorously  unfolds  her  lily  lips  of  mist, 

Swells  about  you, 

Weaves  you  into  herself  through  each  moist  pore, 

Absorbs  you  deliciously, 

Destroys  you. 

SUICIDE 

A  dirty  little  beetle 
Peers  into  motionless  eyes 
Transfixed  to  their  depths 
As  by  shining  needles. 
Limbs  are  taut  in  ultimate  resentment. 
A  bare  sky  confronts  an  upturned  face. 
Like  a  wheel  vanishing  in  speed 
The  corpse,  containing  everything, 
Has  swallowed  itself. 

LEAVES 
I 

The  women  hold  a  child  up  for  a  shield, 
And  speak  of  it  tenderly, 
Seeing  it  bloody. 

101 


II 

The  lovers  throw  back  the  scented  coverlet 
And  are  afraid. 

Seeing  Death  in  their  own  nakedness, 
They  shroud  it  with  flowers. 

Ill 

The  corpse  was  stiff  like  an  arrow. 
As  they  carried  it  past  the  onlookers 
It  pierced  the  crowd  with  its  life. 
Blank  white  faces  floated  back 
In  terror  of  its  vividness. 

IV 

The  man  was  dead. 

It  was  seen  to  that  he  was  buried. 

Again  and  again  they  dug  the  bones  up, 

But  when  they  could  no  longer  find  the  bones 

They  groped  for  the  proof  of  death 

In  fear  of  the  resurrection. 

ALLEGRO 

(At  the  Cemetery) 

The  mounds  stir  in  the  sunshine. 
Bones  clack  a  light  staccato. 

102 


Bare  wrist  bones, 
Tkigh  bones, 
Ankle  bones, 
Kick  the  soil  loose. 

Moldy  draperies  flutter  back  and  forth  through  the  light. 

The  trees  have  put  on  a  thin  green  pretense. 

Even  the  soil  pretends  to  fecundity. 

Toothless  jaws  widen  in  a  smile  of  real  mirth. 

Bones  lightened  of  flesh 

Flash  in  the  sunshine. 

And  afterward 

The  dead  rest  in  the  spring  night, 

Each  in  a  silence  molded  to  him. 

Each  in  his  own  night, 

A  casket  with  a  spangled  lining. 

The  dead  rest  deep  in  their  happiness. 


THE   END 


103 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

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Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


FE 

B  141972  ia 

MAY  4-  1956  LU 

kJ  A  A*    s"\  ^N      481** 

mm  ^ 

472-SPrt  7'( 

MAfthA^  irrff  i 
•W^^1*  Jt!IUJ  • 

JUN  221983 

BEC.  CIR.  DEC  27  '82 

^ 

21-100m-l,'54(1887sl6)476 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


